


It Dissolves in the Writing

by lategoodbye



Category: Anthem (Video Game)
Genre: Established Relationship, Ficlet, M/M, Missing Scene, Vignette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-30
Updated: 2019-05-30
Packaged: 2020-03-29 23:29:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 842
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19030153
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lategoodbye/pseuds/lategoodbye
Summary: After the Heart of Rage is silenced the freelancer receives Owen's letter.





	It Dissolves in the Writing

**Author's Note:**

> Game Update 1.2.0 came with a new letter from Owen. This alone made me pick up the game again.

There’s a hastily scribbled Eddian tree drawn on the creased vellum of the envelope. Two stick figures with wide smiles stand it its presumed shade. They’re looking up at an exaggerated sun and clouds. Or maybe it’s a cataclysm – the freelancer isn’t sure.

“A letter for you”, Jak says, as if the name written in purposeful strokes doesn’t make it obvious. The easy smile on his tan face can’t hide his curiosity. “More fan mail?”

“I doubt it”, the freelancer sighs. He recognises the handwriting, has both dreaded and eagerly awaited the message it brings. The doodle, though, that’s certainly something new. He stares at it in thoughtful concentration as he makes his way over to an empty alcove. Better not to be disturbed, neither by well-meaning people like Jak, nor by a far less amiable sort of crowd. Corvus, he knows, have their ears and eyes everywhere these days, or so it seems.

Eager fingertips dig between the sealed layers of the envelope, and the freelancer looks up one last time before he opens the letter and unfolds the single sheet of paper within. No one’s paying him any attention. Even Jak has returned to his books. Good. This is nobody’s business but his own, and he’s tired of having to explain himself. Even the anger inside him has run its course.

There aren’t any more doodles but—

“Happy Birthday!”, the message reads in cheerful, big letters.

A smile tugs at the corners of his mouth and it’s no use trying to will it away, so he lets the memories wash over him. Owen hasn’t forgotten and neither has he. Some things never change. Made-up birthdays and careless make-belief – anything to avoid the commitment.

“You’re such an idiot”, he mutters under his breath, softly, sadly, to no one in particular, then he reads on with bright eyes and a distinctive lump somewhere low in his throat. He already knows that a few lines of unevenly paced scribbling aren’t going to make this – whatever this is – better. Owen’s jokes speak of… what exactly? Loneliness? Another unspoken apology? Or is he taunting, ridiculing him? The possibilities keep adding up until his thoughts have turned into a dizzying mess of hopes and fears.

“Greetings from…” – but where exactly is Owen? Far enough so he can’t follow, close enough to send a letter. Never entirely within reach. Always on his mind, just the same.

And so, the freelancer finds himself leaning against the cold walls of the enclave. Eyes half-closed he imagines Owen: writing to him. Is he hiding out in a cave (bare, scraggly walls of stone sheltering him and his stolen javelin from the worst of the unpredictable elements) or travelling out in the open (a myriad of silver stars framing the giant planets in the night sky)? Has he found others (and who are they, the freelancer wonders)? Where did he even get a hold of the ink and paper, and someone gullible enough to deliver his letter for him? Between the two of them, Owen has always been the more resourceful one, with a knack for procuring things and convincing those in his immediate vicinity. So he’s probably all right, all things considered.

But that’s just one side of the story.

The freelancer wipes his thumb over where Owen’s message is crowded into one uneven half of the thick paper. There’s no indication that he intended the letter to be longer. It’s not even signed, and there’s certainly no hint of a secret message. The ink isn’t smeared, the sheet of paper is smooth and stainless. He folds it with care and stuffs it into one of the many pouches that hang off his belt. He intends to keep it close. There’s not many of Owen’s keepsakes left, and people could misunderstand what he himself doesn’t dare name.

“When did you get this?”, he asks Jak not a few moments later. His words are a restless tumble of aimless purpose.

“The letter?” Jak considers this. “This morning. Came by strider.”

The freelancer’s feet keep wanting to drag him off into the direction of the Fort’s forge so he grabs the corners of Jak’s table and digs his nails into the well-worn surface of the wood.

“Which strider? Is it still there?”

“I don’t know, pal.” Jak leans back in his chair and tilts his head. “Are you all right?”

This rewards him with an impatient finger pointed not too far from his earnest face.

“Not a word of this to anyone”, the freelancer half-hisses.

“Sure.” Jak shrugs. “What would I even say? That you probably know how to read?”

The unexpected humour takes the edge right off the freelancer’s overbearing urgency, and he slumps his shoulders and lowers his head.

“Oh, ha ha, Jak”, he groans in apologetic defeat.

“What can I say, I’m a funny guy.” Jak’s voice grows softer, then. “I hope you find him, though. I mean it.”

“Well”, and the freelancer’s hand brushes over the pouch that holds Owen’s letter. “That makes one of us, at least.”


End file.
